Parking wars

Now, let me just set the record straight before I venture any further: I don't profess to be the worlds greatest driver. I've been known to leave the handbrake off in Aldi carpark and, by the time I got back to my car, it had found its way so far backwards that cars were having to drive around it. And let's not forget when I reversed angrily off my drive after a row with my then- husband and went straight into a lamp post. (Although I would like to forget screaming "DO YOU WANT A PICTURE?!" at my neighbour when they gawped at my stupidity). But there are some proper morons on the road. There are even Facebook groups dedicated to people who park like they're either a) blind or b) have stolen then abandoned said car before legging it.


I've been surrounded by examples of rubbishy driving and parking over the years. My dad, even in his earlier years, has always been a pensioner when it comes to driving. Never going above 50mph, taking 3 hours to pull out at junctions for fear he might cut up the car that's 2 miles further down the road, that sort of thing. I'll give him his dues though - when I was learning to drive he agreed to take me out in his car to practice, despite me ageing him 30 years when I pulled out in front of car without looking.


Speaking of white knuckles..my other half is exactly the opposite of my dad. He drives like a 17 year old in a Go-Kart, although I suppose if I had a BMW Z4, I'd be a bit lairy too. He told me he tazzed off a garage forecourt the other day so fast his back end (the car, not his actual bum) span round. All I could hear was my mate Vicky saying "It's late, you're tired, you're showing off and it's time to go to bed!". When I'm in the car with him I don't know what to deal with first - the white knuckles, the squeaky bum, or the raging travel sickness. Five minutes in the car with him is what I imagine the training fighter pilots have to go through to get used to G-Force speeds.
And my ex-husband took nine, possibly ten - he can't remember - attempts to pass his test. Enough said there.


But the other day, whilst cleaning the bedroom windowsill I saw THE most extreme example of crappy driving. So crappy in fact, I don't actually know how he/she managed it. Looking down the street I saw what appeared to be the back end of a car. In the air. As it was time to retrieve The Beasts from their educational establishment, I set off to investigate. Leaving the house I bumped into my next door neighbour who was coming home from walking her dog. "Do you know the number for the non-emergency emergency services?" she said. Took me a minute to decipher what she meant, and I twigged - "Have you just seen that car?!". She told me she'd just popped home to get her camera - an indicator of modern society if ever there was one!
As I got closer I saw what can only be described as a car, nose to the ground, with it's rear perched on top of a wrought iron fence. The driver was nowhere to be seen, having no doubt spontaneously combusted with the shame. The car was surrounded by a gathering crowd taking photos on their phones, which made me feel a bit less awkward about doing the same. On the way home from the school run my daughter and her friend just HAD to go and see the spectacle. And of course, I just HAD to go one further than the other rubber-neckers and get this snap:





Certainly puts my handbrake misdemeanours to shame eh? And just to put the ironic cherry on the top - the fence the car is delicately perched upon belongs to....*drumroll*... a driving instructor!!!


There must be scientific calculation that is able to explain this seemingly impossible manoeuvre, because I'm damned if I know how they managed that act of vehicular gymnastics. If anyone is able to shed some light on the matter, please send your answers on a postcard to Freepost 'I drive like a dickhead'.

It's beginning to look a bit like the run-up to Christmas..ish.

It's here! The 1st of December! You are now formally allowed to get excited about Christmas! I have a bit of a reputation for being a bit 'bah, humbug!' about the festive season, which isn't entirely justified. It isn't Christmas per se that I dislike, more the silly buggers that get excited about it in May. I can't be doing with the 'only 209 sleeps til Christmas!' gubbins that litters my Facebook newsfeed, and talk about how many re-mortgages you've had to make to buy your little princess her tartan unicorn with 9ct gold horseshoes, and Sylvanian Families Buckingham Palace.

I do like Christmas, honest I do. Very little can beat the look on The Childbeasts faces as they came downstairs on Christmas morn. The Daughter was so excited she was shaking like a pigeon in a cattery. I've been trying to remind her of this as the big day approaches, because her behaviour has been dreadful and she currently deserves nothing other than a Satsuma and a smacked bum. Our threats of no presents have fallen on deaf ears for months now, so today I brought out the big guns: Santa called. When I say Santa, I mean that I rang my mobile from the home phone. I'd reached my limit of tears, tantrums and smart-arse retorts, so while The Husband was trying his hardest not to drown her in the bath, I put my evil plan into action. As my phone flashed up 'Santa Claus' (along with a 'Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer ringtone for added oomph), I went into the bathroom saying "I don't know how he got hold of my number but look who's ringing me!", and showed her the phone. She immediately burst into tears and shrieked "I already know what he's going to say! I'm on the naughty list, I know it!". I partly closed the door and stood in the hallway, talking to Santa in my most earnest sounding voice.. "Yes Santa, I understand...I know Santa, I'm disappointed too..", whilst relishing the hushed anticipation coming from the bathroom and trying not to laugh.

I had to recant our conversation, word for word, spinning a web of lies involving Santa being able to see everything and having a magic phone. And yes - it did work! Her behaviour this evening has been exemplary, with the odd reminder that Santa will be ringing back in a week to check she's behaving herself.  While I sit, smugly thankful for the results that lies, bribery and deceit have had, I am suddenly struck by a horrifying thought - what on earth will I do when she no longer believes in Santa?!!

Divine intervention.

As religion goes, I'm a 'live and let live' kinda gal. As long you don't either a) ram it down my throat on my own doorstep or b) shoot someone for saying that God is a woman, I have no strong feelings either way. I can completely understand how some people find strength in faith, just as I can see how others need definitive proof of something tangible in order to believe.

The Childbeasts attend a church affiliated school, but this is more to do with its reputation than it's religious orientation. I don't have a problem with them attending worship, or studying religion, and The Daughter does seem to be growing up as a believer. Well, mainly when she wants something. A few weeks ago she came back from the grandparents with an acorn, and on this acorn she'd drawn a smiley face. As she often does, she got the urge to destroy it by taking the top bit off (which I liked because I thought it looked like a little acorn hat). The Husband said no, that he thought it would ruin it. But away she went and wrenched it off anyway. And then started sobbing because it had wrecked it. "WHHHHHHHHYYYY?!" she wailed, "Why did God let me do it?!" And as we stood, aghast and wondering how on earth it had become the good Lords fault, she looked to the heavens and her little mouth began to whisper. "Erm, Jenny?" The Husband said, laughing, "are you praying for God to fix it?" Casting us a dirty look, she flounced off and threw Mr Acorn with the rest of the broken crap she's accumulated.

That incident reminded me of how, when I was young, I would pray really hard if I had lost something. There would be a bit of bargaining going on, of the 'if you help me find my French homework I promise I'll never say 'bugger' again' kind. Which, to be fair, quite often worked. Although how much of it was down to God helping me out rather than me tearing my room apart, I'm not sure.

But after an experience in Matalan (of all places), I may have to reconsider my religious perspective. As I was paying, the Jamaican woman in the queue next to me patted me on the shoulder and said, with a sympathetic look on her face, "Trust in Jehovah" and walked away.  I could perhaps have understood this divine intervention if I'd been drunk in the middle of the day, swearing and offering the other shoppers a fight, but I was only buying a cat-print snood! Does Jehovah really have such a strong opinion on cats? Or snoods? Either way, she seemed to think I needed help from the Lord. I think I might have to get The Daughter to pray for me. And possibly donate my snood to charity.

What's in a word?

My name is Kirsty and I love words. All of them. Everything about language fascinates me; how we learn to speak and write, how our brain makes associations and applies grammatical rules to form new sentences, how words can be used to evoke all kinds of emotions from anger to joy. Of course, while the right selection of words can have consequences ranging from the hilarious to the catastrophic, the wrong words can be just as effective..

The Daughter has always been articulate and frequently - although not always intentionally - funny. It's the things that she gets wrong that make us laugh the loudest and hardest, and that makes her the most furious! From her weather-orientated bloopers - "Look outside! It's shittering it down!", to her culinary blunders - "This bubonic sauce (balsamic vinegar salad dressing) is actually quite nice", her little funnies have earned the name 'Nennyisms', which have become all the more poignant since she learned the written form. Since then, her quaint little turns of phrase have taken on a whole new dimension, as she writes letters to her friends, and leaves us little notes...

Boyface has started to follow in his sisters footsteps, although it's the pronunciation of words he struggles more with. He would gleefully shout about the "church cock (clock) and "fags (flags..I hope) on the park". I'm sure I've given my parents the same sort of laughs over the years though; they never let me forget about the time we were driving through a place I called Birminghamshire. And I do remember being very literal in my pronunciation of words when I was younger. I pronounced Penelope as 'Penner-low-pee' and Parade as 'Parradee'. But despite my own somewhat shaky introduction to the English language, I am now a fully paid up degree holder who loves to read and write. And so the next time The Daughter is playing with a pair of Lego Ninja Turtles nunchucks and says "I know what to do with these gymnackers!", after I've finished wetting myself laughing I will tell her she has a bright future ahead. And that if she ever finds herself in Birminghamshire, she should look out for the church cocks and the fags on the park..

The lowest form of wit

Someone told me a while back that children don't really understand the concept of sarcasm until they're about eleven (my smart-mouthed daughter is only 6 so I'm reserving judgment on that, but let's run with it..). If this is true, I pity any child that comes into contact with myself or The Husband, because sarcasm is what we do. We both graduated from University with degrees in Sarcasm and General Ridicule (him with 3rd class, me with a 1st - natch).

Our own kids are subjected to this relentless wisecracking on an almost daily basis. Sometimes they go with it, answering with a weary "Oh you are silly daddy.." (it's always him because he takes it too far) and a pitying shake of the head. Sometimes it riles them to the point of hysteria, and I have to step in because I just can't bear the tears. But sometimes, it's just too much to resist and we go wading in to battle, side by side in our mission to wind up the offspring.

Like tonight for instance. On emptying The Daughters lunchbox I discovered that, yet again, she'd taken the cheese out her sandwich and essentially just had bread for lunch. In our quest for a sandwich filling she will actually eat, we've gone through pretty much every variety of meat and cheese that Asda stocks. And so, whilst buttering the bread for tomorrows sarnies, we saw this as a prime urine-extracting opportunity. "If you don't like this cheese," The Husband began, "I don't know what we're going to do because we've tried all the others". "Why, what is it?" The Daughter enquired. "Well, I've milked all of the cats and...". "DADDYYYYYY!" she shouts, knowing that silliness is imminent. Well, it was just too much to resist; I rolled my metaphorical sleeves up and joined in. "You know how 'Cathedral City' is spelt c-a-t...?" I asked her with a knowing raise of the eyebrow and BOOM!  The fish bit the worm and I reeled that sucker in!

It's when it's other people's kids that the problem arises, and The Husband in particular can't seem to resist winding up our daughters tiny dinner guests. the boy from down the street came round at the weekend and the kids sat watching 'Monsters Inc.'. The Daughter - being an almighty show off - announced "I've seen 'Monsters University". Not to be outdone, the little lad said "I've seen 'Monsters University too!". And The Husband, doing what he does best, said "I've BEEN to Monsters University - that's where I got my degree". The poor kid didn't know what to think, but I bet the rumour is already well on its way around school that Jenny's daddy went to a cartoon university.

In a way it's a good thing that kids can be so easily wound up; it's not going to be half as much fun when all we get for our efforts is a smart-arsed retort. Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it's also the most enjoyable!

Welcome to the rest of your life!

Another milestone reached in the Bobs household! The Boychild had his first day at school last Thursday and there was a collective sigh of relief as it went without a hitch. That's a ridiculous understatement actually; he saw the cars and toy garage in the corner of the classroom and flew over without so much of a backward glance. The words "Charlie, can I have a cudd.....?" were left hanging in the air as I stood, bereft and still clutching his Spiderman lunchbag feeling like a bit of a sap. To be fair though, none of the teeny tiny new starters seemed particularly perturbed by their abandonment in this new environment. It was the following day that reality seemed to hit - they had to go AGAIN?! There were a few tiny people sobbing and clutching onto their parents legs, having realised that this school lark wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Not my lad though, oh no. Not while there was a car to sczhum in that classroom!

Photo's were of course taken to mark the momentous day of our last (probably) baby starting school, and how smart did he look! Such a grown up boy with his spiked up hair and clean uniform. true to form though, his groomed appearance lasted about 12 minutes before his shirt was untucked, his shoes were scratched, and he'd got grass-stains on his face. I wouldn't expect anything less though - I've always been one of those people who, even when freshly showered and glammed up, I still look a bit of a scruff. So of course, it follows that my two will always look like Victorian street urchins.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of his first full week, so we'll see if his enthusiasm wanes at all. All I'm bothered about is that a) he manages to keep his trousers on, b) he doesn't show everyone his peen and c) he doesn't get expelled. Rules which I expect will follow him through the next 11 years of school life and beyond! Even from his initial two days, it seemed like he'd grown up that bit more and now I have another child to worry about developing attitude, and hanging about with the wrong crowd. There is a boy in The Daughters class who apparently said to her last week "I love poo I do, I'm going to eat some of my poo in a minute" (clearly the sort of boy that every parent hopes their child will flourish into) and I made a mental note to make sure my naïve little darling doesn't befriend any drug dealers, vandals or poo-eaters. So here it begins; the next stage in all of our lives. So long as my little angels are happy and thriving I will try and forget that nagging empty nest feeling. maybe it's time to start trying for little baby Cheesecake...?

What's in a name?

You might have seen in the papers or on 'This Morning' a while back, that horsey-looking posh woman who used to be on 'The Apprentice', spouting her nonsense about such subjects as fat people and kids with chavvy names. Katie Hopkins, that's the badger; with a posh name like that obviously she's more than qualified to pour scorn on the Kylie's and Charmaine's of this world (did the sarcasm come across ok?). What she basically said, in a judgmental nutshell, was that she wouldn't allow her own precious offspring play with school friends who had names which suggested a lower class (Tyler and Chardonnay were the examples she gave), and hated when parents called their children after celebrities, or place names... momentarily forgetting she'd named one of her own darlings 'India'.

Anyway. I won't be getting involved in the big name debate because - let's face it - I'm bound to offend someone. In the privacy of my own home I may cast a cursory snigger at the poor little buggers who have been cursed with being such names as 'Apple' (Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris thingy from 'Coldplay'), or 'Jermajesty' (son of Jermaine Jackson. Seriously. I know - it sounds like one of those words Nicole Scherzinger makes up..Schamazing!) Being the product of a celebrities loins makes it slightly more acceptable to have a daft name, because it doesn't make a difference to the opportunities that life opens up when your dad is a multi-millionaire rocker. But let's face it, you've got fluff-all chance of an interview if you're sending in CV's headed with the name MoonUnit Smith.

The reason behind all of my chattering is that (thanks to my stupid sprained ankle), I've been watching an awful lot of rubbish telly. And I realised that, in all of the soaps or 'reality' shows etc, does anybody share their name with another character. Obviously in Hollyoaks this is a given; it's unlikely you'd catch two people with the name 'Mitzeeee' living in the same street. But in Eastenders, Emmerdale, Corrie, I've struggled to find two characters with the same name. And I know that's probably because it would get a bit confusing for the script writers, but still - it's not very realistic.
I think about the kids at my daughters school and there's a good few groups of 3 or 4 that share names, because that is realistic. Two of my friends have husbands who share the same name and spelling of my other half - and he hasn't got a particularly common name.

But when it comes to names, while I think that nasty Hopkins woman is nowt but a snob (I mean, why would you punish a child for something their parent had done?), there is a point somewhere in her diatribe. Because who can deny that, when they were plumbing the depths of their minds and baby books for prospective names, they didn't skip past the ones that had memories of someone they'd known before? "Noooooo! I'm not calling him Simon*! There was a kid in Juniors called Simon who used to eat his ear wax!" (*names for illustrative purposes only). So names do have connotations for us, even if we don't take things as far as Horsey Hopkins. I've stuck with fairly sensible names for my two - The Daughter is named after my sister who died when we were young, and The BoyChild is named after my granddad. I might just throw all sense out of the window if we have a third though...any thoughts on Cheesecake Hague anyone??